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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29180214">Oh, To Grace, How Great A Debtor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_lady_greensleeves/pseuds/my_lady_greensleeves'>my_lady_greensleeves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthurian mythology - Freeform, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other, Religious Guilt, listen, nimue is a feral teenager who eats dirt and you can't change my mind, nimue is feral okay, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:07:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29180214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_lady_greensleeves/pseuds/my_lady_greensleeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy lives. And so too, it seems, does Lancelot.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur/Nimue (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight &amp; The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival &amp; The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
    <em>Come, my lord, no longer tarry</em><br/>
<em>Take my ransomed soul away</em></p><p>The road is hard beneath his throbbing feet. Goliath throws a shoe three days into their journey, and the horses' misstep throws both his riders to the ground. Lancelot twists in midair to take the force of the blow on his already-bruised shoulder. His vision, already blurred and darkened on the borders, goes white as his body seizes up with the impact, rebelling against him.<br/>
The boy rides alone in the saddle after that. Too small to be anything more than a mild annoyance to a horse of that size. The monk walks in front, reins in hand.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><br/>The boy. The boy is the only thing that matters. Returning him to his people. Getting him home. The monk can always curl up and die later.<br/>The boy speaks, breaking the monk out of his reverie.<br/>“Can we build a fire tonight? I'm freezing.” Lancelot shakes his head. The land they travel through is flat scrubland, with only a few small hills scattered throughout. Any light after dark fell could be seen almost to the horizon. The boy's hopeful expression falls, replaced by disappointment. The monk turns away, beginning to lay out the small camp. They both shiver silently well into the night after darkness falls.<p>He startles awake, still freezing, to the feeling of small arms wrapping tighter around his torso. Percival had slept beside him, their bedrolls nearly overlapping to keep in what little warmth could be had between the two of them. Even then, the cold makes his wounds ache. The cuts on his back pull as he shifts to find a less painful spot on the uneven earth.<br/>
The boy snuggles closer, heedless of Lancelot's new awareness. At least one of them is warm. He pulls on the cloak, arranging it to cover Percival more completely. Goes slow, so as not to disturb him. Falls back into sleep, light and troubled, soon after that.</p><p>His thoughts wander to the past as they travel. <em>I don't harm the children.</em> The Green Knight had looked at him, then, with eyes that pierced the shadows of his hood. Not accusing. Not arguing. Just... <em>looking.</em><br/>
It was no longer enough. To stand aside and let them be taken by fire and tell himself in the night that he was not to blame. Because it was not his hand that dealt the blow. <em>He's just a boy. No threat to us.</em> Lancelot had been the same, once. Only a boy.<br/>
He'd damned himself for a boy. Damned himself further, at least. Jagged rocks bite into the thin soles of his boots, blistering the bottoms of his feet. He ignores the small pain; it's nothing, just another to take stock of and add to the pile.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><p><br/>
The signs, when they appear, are subtle. It is in the nature of the fey, of whatever species, to leave behind light footprints on the earth. When they leave any trace at all. The Weeping Monk tracks a small contingent of Moon Wing pilgrims as they return to the main fey holding. Follows them from cover with his gaze as they follow the tracks of numerous others into the main entrance between the palisades.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>be gentle with me im baby</p><p>The story and chapter title are both from the song Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing by Robert Robinson.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>And I hope by thy good pleasure</em><br/>
<em>Safely to arrive at home</em>
</p><p>The scent of so many fey packed into one place makes his eyes water a little. <em>Like animals,</em> his mind supplies, and he shakes his aching head to clear the thought. <em>Like cattle.</em><br/>
Percival is not an animal, despite his namesake. A boy. Only a boy.<br/>
If he tries, Lancelot can remember what it was like to be one. Vaguely. Darkly. Trying to pierce the veil of memory is akin to cutting through scar tissue. Less successful, possibly.</p><p>There are shouts as they see him. Alarms that are certainly raised at his approach. And it's then that he smells it. The familiar fear. First a little, seeping into the clean air. It grows with every hoofbeat, thickens into a miasma that chokes him as he struggles to breathe past it. To find some air, somewhere, not tainted wholly by the stench.<br/>
The sellsword guards that surround them now stink of it. His reputation precedes him, and even beaten and exhausted, he's still a formidable opponent. Still a threat. The boy they ignore. <em>Good.</em></p><p>The Weeping Monk surrenders without a fight.<br/>
His swords are confiscated, whisked away while he's still on the ground. Not that he can't function without them, but... the weapons are a crutch, a comfort in unfamiliar territory. Gone now. They bind his hands behind his back, tightly enough that they go numb within minutes.<br/>
His captors drag him into a cell. Dump him there, biting back a groan, and leave. It's a wonder they don't kill him outright. He shifts, but there's no way to get comfortable.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><br/>News of the battle, of the events that preceded it and the subsequent effects, are slow to trickle in. He hears the guards conversing over their long watches, words hushed and heads bent together in the flickering torchlight.<br/>The Pendragon King has withdrawn, he hears, back to his castle and his soft bed and his advisors that bend like reeds to his every whim. Back to his stronghold, where he can prepare to meet the threat to his legitimacy that the Norsemen and their rumours represent. Back to his home, where he can bury the woman who was not his mother in peace.<br/>The sorcerer, Merlin, is missing. Along with the Wolf-Blood Witch's human friend and her brother. The Green Knight is dead. There is no word from her other allies.<br/>“<em>What?</em>” The question rushes from his cracked lips before he can stop it. The guard, a faun, turns.<br/>“The Green Knight. He's dead.” The faun turns around fully to watch him. “He died before the battle began.” They say it like they're waiting for something, for a reaction. So he does nothing. Holds himself still, without even breathing, until they turn away with a disgusted noise.<br/>Some part of him grieves to hear it. For his part in the knight's undoing. To know that that kinship, however small, is gone. It was a fool's hope, anyways. <em>Have you just come to watch me die?</em><br/>He feels... nothing. Feels numb.<p>The days that pass, if the time between his imprisonment and conditional release are indeed days and not anything shorter, pass in a painful blur.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><br/>He is dragged outside into the blinding light of midday. Dragged further into a hall, and falls to his knees on the stone floor of the meeting room. Lancelot barely avoids falling on his face, catching himself at the last moment with newly-freed hands. They're clumsy, still bloodless and numb.<p>The witch has returned.</p><p>The Wolf-Blood Witch. Daughter of Merlin. Wielder of the sword of power. Queen, now, of the Fey. <em>So this is the girl.</em> He's finally found her. Now, when it no longer matters.<br/>
<em>“You,”</em> she whispers, grey eyes going hard. And such eyes they are. He can recall them, and her, now, from the village in the woods. Sky-Folk. <em>Such beauty,</em> Father Carden had said. <em>But infected all the same.</em> Those eyes had been... memorable, in their splendor, even opened wide with horror. Filled with tears. They're hooded now, in spite of her ill-hidden surprise. Shadowed. Haunted.<br/>
She smells of ash, a little like him. The scent is familiar to him, from the convent and the places after it. Worse though, somehow. Like fields scoured and salted. Like anger that burns, consuming all and leaving nought behind.<br/>
She smells of rage. Of loss. And for that, he can't blame her. It is his fault. By his hand that she has lost everything.<br/>
Lancelot wonders idly if he will survive this.<br/>
The Fey Queen speaks again. Louder, this time. “You've hunted us. You killed innocent, harmless people. But worse than that... you have killed <em>my</em> people.” She flicks the sword of power free of its sheath. “Give me a reason that I shouldn't kill you now.” There aren't any. If she's wise, she'll do it.<br/>
Lancelot's mind goes blank.<br/>
“I cannot.” His words are barely audible, spoken as if by another. No reason is offered. He doubts there would be an answer good enough. One that would satisfy her, pacing there on the final step down from the dais.<br/>
She looks at him straight in the eye. “Tell me you are finished with this. Give up your swords, and your arrows, and your poisonous faith, and I will let you live.” Her hand tightens, unconsciously, he thinks, on the hilt of the sword. “You will swear it, here and now. Or you will die. That is my bargain.”<br/>
No one speaks. No one moves for a long moment.<br/>
If she's waiting for him to break, to <em>beg</em>, she'll have to wait a while longer.<br/>
“Well, then.” The Wolf-Blood Witch raises her sword. Lancelot's eyes slip closed. The air itself seems to grow quiet and still.<br/>
He waits.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>today's sponsor is adhd-fueled insomnia</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Clothed in flesh till death shall loose me</em><br/>
<em>I cannot proclaim it well</em>
</p><p>His tear-marked eyes open when the blow doesn't come. The witch is staring open-mouthed behind him, sword still held in both hands. Upraised to strike.<br/>
“Don't hurt him!” <em>Percival.</em> The boy sprints to the front, weaving through the assembled crowd.<br/>
“Squirrel!” The name holds a well of relief in it. Lancelot's focus shifts once more, to see his former travelling companion embracing his would-be executioner. She holds the sword carefully away from the boy's careless form. “You're alive. I didn't know-”<br/>
The boy interrupts breathlessly. “<em>Please</em> don't kill him. He saved me. I'll never forgive you if you do.” The queen's brow furrows as she processes his request. The boy pries himself away from the witch and moves to stand next to Lancelot. The breath eases in his chest, to see the boy safe, surrounded by his own people. To witness him in anything resembling high spirits.<br/>
“What?” the witch asks. It comes out incredulous.<br/>
“He saved me.” The story falls from his small mouth in a vehement tangle. “He fought the Trinity Guard and he killed a Red Paladin to get us all the way back here. So that I could find you again.”<br/>
She shakes her head. Like she can't quite believe what she's hearing and seeing. Lancelot can't blame her for her surprise. The Paladin camps swallow fey whole, it seems. Those that enter rarely leave them. Save for himself.</p><p>The doors to the hall crash open once more. All inside turn to look.</p><p>“Lady Nimue,” A Tusk calls. “There is urgent news. I must speak with you.” She gestures the fey woman forward. The Tusk whispers in her ear, so low not even he can hear it. Nimue's face, peaked so recently with righteous anger and awed surprise, drains of colour.<br/>
She looks back to the monk, slumped over on the floor. To Squirrel, hovering beside him like a guard dog. Her face falls again, back into stern, unsmiling sobriety.<br/>
“Bring him.” Her guards do as they are commanded. The boy follows.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><p>They re-tie his hands in front of him. More loosely, this time. He can feel the blood making a fraught, painful journey back through to the tips of his stiff fingers. The tent the party enters is clean and well-furnished, if sparse. It looks unused, with dust gathering in a light layer on the table and chairs within. Her guards dump him on the ground and look to her for dismissal. She nods, and as they depart, she turns to him.<br/>
“It is by <em>my</em> will alone that you still live,” she grits out. “And it is on sufferance. Do not forget.”<br/>
The monk's gaze is dull as he nods. Percival shoots a worried glance between the two.<br/>
They don't have long to wait. There are footsteps outside, and a familiar scent seeps in that tugs at his memory.<br/>
A gauntleted hand pushes back the tent flap. A figure steps inside, silhouetted in the waning light. Lancelot squints, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It doesn't take long.</p><p>The Green Knight looks well for a dead man.</p><p>The witch flings herself at the Knight with a cry. Into his arms. It's the second time in as many hours Lancelot's seen her make that face. Disbelief. Wonder. She must feel as though she is blessed; allies once thought missing having been returned to her. Whole, at least, if not quite hale. Friends thought to have been lost, reunited. The Green Knight spins her around before setting her down. Looking around as his eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the tent. He stops when he sees Percival.<br/>
The Knight's gaze leaves Nimue to focus on the boy, and the cloaked figure slumped beside him.<br/>
“Squirrel! Wha- How did you escape?” The breath huffs out of him as the boy throws himself at the Knight.<br/>
The boy jerks his chin at the prisoner. “Lancelot. He saved me.” Gawain does a double-take, gaze running down the monk's kneeling form with no little surprise.<br/>
“Hello, Brother.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Gawain being the embodiment of the 'i lived bitch' meme (:</p><p>also yes i am gay and no i will not be taking questions</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>He, to rescue me from danger</em><br/>
<em>Interposed His precious blood</em></p>
<p>Lancelot doesn't have the energy to reply. To snap at him. The Knight turns back to Nimue.<br/>
“He's hurt. Badly. He needs a healer.”<br/>
“<em>No,</em>” she glares. “If you think I'll take pity on a man that murdered <em>our people</em>-”<br/>
“I would not ask you to-” The Knight lowers himself carefully into a chair, unable to hide a grimace.<br/>
She rounds on him. “He's a <em>MONSTER</em>, Gawain! A bedtime story to frighten children! He's <em>soaked</em> in the blood of our kin! How could you speak out for him?” The knight says nothing to her in his own defence. And then, in a whisper. “He burnt our village to the ground.”<br/>
The Green Knight nods. And adds in a whisper, equally quiet, “I know.” He turns again to Percival, who looks up. “Go fetch a healer, boy.” Percival gives a dubious look to the three of them.<br/>
“But-” he protests. The Knight cuts him off.<br/>
“<em>Now</em>, Squirrel. Go.” The boy nods, staring glumly at the ground as he leaves the tent.<br/>
They don't move again until the boy's gone.<br/>
Nimue speaks, her face downturned. “Pym's not here. She left with Arthur; with the convoy.” She doesn't speak to whether she thinks they'll return.</p>
<p>She lets herself scowl at the Knight only after the boy is gone from sight. “The Weeping Monk? Really? He's a man-blood that hunts our kind. Not one of us. My people hate him. They fear him.” And not without reason. “He could've killed you. He almost did.” He had hurried on the Knight to his destruction, if nothing else. Nothing more. Not to tell of the countless other grievances against him.<br/>
The Green Knight leans forward, voice gentle. Coaxing. “He is one of us. One of the Ash Folk, from far across the sea. Nimue, he is one of your people.”<br/>
"What?" And then she shakes her head, dismissing the new information. “He's Father Carden's sword,” she spits, turning away.<br/>
“Not a weapon,” the Knight corrects. <em>Not anymore</em>, he adds to himself. “A warrior.” She shakes her head, conceding the point. “We're in short supply of those just now. We could use all the help we can get.” At least until things have settled.<br/>
Nimue vents a frustrated sigh. <em>Fine</em>. “If you are the one that wishes him to stay, then you will be the one to watch him.” <em>Any blood he sheds will fall on your head,</em> she doesn't add. The Green Knight annoyingly bows his acceptance.<br/>
“As you say, my queen.”<br/>
She scoffs. “Get up.” He snorts, raising himself to stand with some effort. They both turn to him, as if he hasn't been listening this whole time. He can see their faces tighten in turn, their mirth gone.<br/>
Her stare burns into him, as if it alone could turn him to cinders. Could scatter him to the winds. This, he sees, is the wrath that razed the Red Paladins. His brothers.<br/>
“Stand,” she bites out. Lancelot bites back a groan as he pushes himself to his feet. The binding on his hands doesn't make it any easier. “Why did you come here?” He almost laughs. But the welling of manic, tired mirth dies stillborn in his chest at her look.<br/>
“The boy,” he answers finally. “ Percival.” The witch breaks his gaze to share a troubled look with the Green Knight. “To see him safe; back with his people.” What's left of them. The two turn, seeming to carry on a conversation without words in front of him. He can almost follow if he looks between them. It ends with a held stare, almost a challenge, before the Knight nods and turns his focus upon Lancelot.<br/>
The Green Knight unsheathes the horn-handled dagger from his boot, its naked blade glinting in the diffuse light. Lancelot takes a wary step back. His mind whirs to life, calculating the chances of escaping this. He's unarmed save for his few hidden weapons. Injured, almost-certainly gravely. He has no idea where Goliath is; the idea of leaving his friend behind, though practical and possibly necessary, pains him.</p>
<p>All in all, a bad gamble.</p>
<p>“Peace,” says the Knight. Still holding the dagger. Lancelot takes another step back. His back presses against the wall of the tent. The material holds as he tests it, bearing up his weight. Cornered.<br/>
<em>Caught</em>, like a rabbit in a trap. The Green Knight steps forward.<br/>
He tenses, waiting for a blow that doesn't come. In a swift motion, the Green Knight cuts his bonds. He's rubbing the feeling back into his hands when she speaks again.<br/>
“Before, I acted without thinking. But now... I see it now. “ She stands. “Your life will serve me far better than your death.” Lancelot can only stare at her. At them both, bewildered.<br/>
“Kneel,” says the Green Knight. His knees buckle, not exactly of their own accord. “And give me your hand.” Lancelot offers his left, the right already on the ground, keeping him from falling over further.<br/>
The blade parts his flesh as easily as any other, though a few shades more willing than with most. The Knight gives himself a matching wound on his right hand. The blood of both flow freely, mingling together to drip onto the ground.</p>
<p>They both look up as Nimue speaks. “I offer you a chance to redeem yourself. To make amends.” To protect that which, before, he had been tasked to destroy. “Not for what you are. But for what you have <em>done</em>. Your sword; your loyalty, and your life.” The words drop onto him like stones, and he fights not to flinch and give himself away. “They belong to me now. They are mine, by right of mercy.” He nods. “Swear it.” Her voice is firm, gaze grave on their kneeling figures in front of her.<br/>
He bows his head, hand clasped around the Knight's own in mocking intimacy. The cut stings as he tightens his grip. Just as before, Lancelot will do this because he must. He must, or he will die.<br/>
“I swear.” The Green Knight nods, satisfied, and releases him.<br/>
Exhausted, wounded and bleeding, the Weeping Monk loses his grip on consciousness and collapses into the dirt.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this is my first published fic, which means you are all my lab rats, and i am your dubiously-experienced caretaker. feedback is appreciated, as always :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>How His kindness yet pursues me</em><br/>
<em>Mortal tongue can never tell</em>
</p><p>“He's killed so many.”<br/>
“There is good in him.” A sharp silence follows the statement.<br/>
“Is there? Will it be enough? Enough to wipe clean what he has done? <em>All</em> that he has done?” The previous words ring in the space. <em>He's killed so many. So many. So many.</em><br/>
“I don't know.” And then, “I hope.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div>Burning up with fever, Lancelot sleeps. And he dreams.<br/><em>“Born in the dawn-”</em> The Weeping Monk slits his throat before he can finish the sacred invocation. Watches with impassive eyes as blood blankets the front of his armour in a wash of red, stark and vivid against the green-lacquered leather.<br/>The scene <em>shifts,</em> becoming both familiar and uncanny. His stomach drops as they lead the boy away in spite of his protest. Knowing what's coming as Father ambles forward. The almost casual way he sidles within striking distance. The cunning, scheming appraisal of the watching abbot.<br/>It changes then, fluid and frightening, like dark waters reaching to up envelope him. The dream swallows him whole. The boy; dead. His people; dead. Gawain, again, as he imagined him to look after the time spent with Brother Salt. Blood clotted, caked into the myriad wounds inflicted upon him. Face still and slack. Head lolling to the side. Those eyes, open and glazed as in his nightmares.<br/>The Green Knight's fixed gaze, blank and staring, chases him into the waking world. Sinks like a lead weight into his mind, anchoring itself there.<br/>Only a dream. Only a memory. Never mind that he's never learned to wake himself from such things. Never mind that he can't escape, in dreams nor reality.<p>Lancelot comes awake to the heaving of his empty stomach. Shivers wrack him, though he can feel and nearly see the heat rising off his covered form.<br/>
He doesn't know why he's in a bed. How he came to be here. Percival cleans a small knife in the chair next to his borrowed bed. Doesn't comment on the state he's sure to be in, restless and sick. They sit in silence for a while.<br/>
“I didn't mean it when I said your horse was ugly.”<br/>
Lancelot nods.<br/>
“What's his name?”<br/>
“Goliath.” His lips crack around the word, coming out in a rough mumble. The boy's eyes widen.<br/>
“You sound terrible. D'you want some water?”<br/>
He nods again, wincing at the stabbing pain in the base of his skull. “Please.” Guilt and embarrassment rise to choke him, and he swallows them down. There will be other, better times to flagellate himself for showing weakness.<br/>
But only if he lives.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div>He lives. And the wound made by the Green Knight's blade heals in a scar.<br/>It hurts. Just a little. He's had worse. Much worse. So much worse that he could laugh at the comparison. Has died and almost died a hundred times, in a hundred little ways. But the pain, small as it is, as easily forgotten as it should be... lingers.<br/>So he spends his solitary days praying. Not to the God of Abraham. No more, he fears, would he be welcomed after all that has come to pass in this short time. If he ever truly had been. No.<br/>Lancelot prays to the Hidden.<p>It's awkward and stilted at first, lacking in rhythm. Lacking the flowing cadence of his prayers from before, begging an ever-silent God for protection and forgiveness and deliverance from evil.<br/>
Instead, he asks. It begins with this, in his quiet, still room. <em>Are you there?</em> Kneeling on bruised knees, the strained muscles of his legs keening at him. He quiets his thoughts. <em>Are you listening?</em><br/>
It doesn't seem like it, at least at first glance. But endurance has never been a trial for him. Waiting, holding out for an answer, has never felt more important than it does now.<br/>
So he waits.</p><p>It comes almost like a dream. Almost like the memory of a memory. Things are much bigger than he remembers, or perhaps it is just that he is small. The forests of Carr Benwick tower above him, light and wind streaming through the canopy of branches in the rushing, waning tides of Autumn. Soon would the world die and be born anew into the next year, but not yet.<br/>
The other tribes believed and worshipped as though the world was forged in light. But his kin, the Ash Folk, knew the truth of the matter.<br/>
The world was born into the dark. And it was from that darkness, that chaos, that the first spark emerged. The first fires that brought Fey-kind into the watery, grey light of dawn. From fire came warmth, came life. And came ash.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><p>When the Paladins had come, that first and final time, they hadn't known to be wary. Hadn't recognized the obvious threat with which they were presented. The rumours had run before the Paladins, bringing whispers of blood and death and burning crosses that had been dismissed as no more than wild exaggeration. The Paladins had come to a silent halt at the edge of the village. Watching. Waiting... for what, he hadn't known.<br/>
The Ash Folk should have known. But they didn't.<br/>
The bravest of them, an elder, had stepped forward to greet the strangers as sacred hospitality dictated. The movement broke the shallow stillness they'd been plunged into. Unleashed the strangers' unreserved well of wrath upon the tribe.<br/>
The Ash Folk died that day. Ceased to exist, like spent kindling.</p><p>The last day... and the first. A precipice in his mind, dark and roaring as an underground river. As likely to sweep him away. To pull him under. He remembers that day well; it's etched into his memory like charring on wood.<br/>
The grey-blue of the storm clouds thick with rain, and his mother's eyes. The hue of his own eyes.<br/>
His mother. <em>Niniane.</em> Dead now for almost longer than she had been alive.</p><p>The Ash Folk should've killed them all on sight. Should've razed them to the ground. Perhaps then none of this would have happened.<br/>
It would've saved Lady Nimue the trouble of doing it herself, at the very least.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>y'all be patient with me i gotta hurry and post this shit before i run out of the döpamine™</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Let thy goodness, like a fetter</em><br/>
<em>Bind my wandering heart to thee</em></p>
<p>He can smell the Green Knight outside his quarters. Lingering by the door, as if deciding whether or not to knock. Lancelot doesn't move; doesn't look up at the sound. The Knight, hearing nothing, opens the door.<br/>
“I thought swearing my soul away would buy me a few days peace.” If nothing else.<br/>
The Knight says nothing. And then, “It's been a few days.” More than that. Long enough, hopefully, for the outrage of the city's inhabitants to die down somewhat. Though he rather doubts it. “And neither I nor Nimue make any claims on your soul, such as it is.” Only his loyalty. Only his <em>life.</em><br/>
The Knight groans faintly as he sits without invitation. He's still hurt, despite whatever miracle restored him. Not yet fully healed.<br/>
That makes two of them.</p>
<p>They sit and kneel in silence for what feels like a small eternity, before the Knight breaks the silence.<br/>
“Are we-” the monk's eyes narrow. “Are the fey not also children of your god?”<br/>
The monk's reply is too quick, almost automatic. Sharp-edged. “You and your kind are an abomination in his sight.” <em>We</em> and <em>us</em> and <em>our kind. Demon-born, like him. Born into sin.</em> He can't bring himself to say the words. To admit it, even now, after everything that has happened. Even after he's been revealed. Not all lessons can be unlearned in so little time.<br/>
Gawain frowns, thoughtful. “If we are not his...” The frown deepens, wrinkling his forehead. “Whose children are we?”<br/>
For that, Lancelot finds he has no good answer.</p>
<p>The Fey came first, Gawain explains. Gifted. Radiant. Blessed by the Hidden.<br/>
Humans came after. An attempt to recreate what had already been mastered. Like and unlike. The same, almost, but not.<br/>
They had no magic. Lacked the fey's intrinsic connection to the natural world. And so they forged tools and communities of their own. But always with an awareness of their perceived imperfection. The feelings... simmered.<br/>
It makes an awful kind of sense. Jealousy. A seed planted in poisoned ground that grows to strangle the Fey, even now.</p>
<p>“Green Knight-” he begins, then stops.<br/>
“My name is Gawain.”<br/>
“Gawain.” The name feels <em>different</em> on his tongue than the title, though he can't place exactly why. “I was told you died.” Both a question, and not. He nods.<br/>
“I did.”<br/>
“And yet you're here.” Now. Sitting in front of him.<br/>
He nods again, breathing a quiet laugh. “I am.”<br/>
“How?”<br/>
He shrugs a shoulder. “The last thing I recall is seeing her face, and then... darkness.” The monk looks up, disquieted. <em>The power to raise the dead...</em> Just what has he run towards, to escape his former life?<br/>
There's a beat before he decides it doesn't matter. Whatever this is... an honest horror, at least.<br/>
“And Lady Nimue? She could do this, even without the sword of power?” The title feels strange on Lancelot's tongue.<br/>
He shrugs again, his armour shifting with the movement. “She is the strongest of us. Stronger than I've ever seen. And with the sword...” He doesn't finish. The Fey aren't conquerors; they only want to live in peace. The taking of Gramaire was bourne out of necessity. Not lust for power.<br/>
Their moves have always been counterattacks, straightforward defence. Purely reactive. It makes them lash out. Makes them scatter as they flee. Makes them easy to kill.<br/>
They need to stop running. To face the enemy. Need to stand and fight. If anyone can break them of the habit...<br/>
He admits, only to himself, that this is not the worst outcome. Out of everything that has and could've come to pass. He is a <em>good</em> teacher, at least. And why not- why not cross that final, faint line? Why not become what he had once been driven to destroy? <em>Why not?</em><br/>
Lancelot sighs. “What must I do?”<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><br/>“You said my people needed me.”<br/>And he'd replied, voice like the crack of a whip, as close to shouting as he'd ever come. <em>They are not my people</em>. It was a lie, he knew. Both then and now.<br/>“They do.” Gawain looks up, and their gazes meet. “You've hurt us. Almost destroyed us.” He looks away from the knight's earnest gaze. The understanding there. The <em>compassion,</em> that scrapes at him like salt in flayed flesh. “But we're not gone. We still need you. They still need a champion.”<br/>“I thought they looked to you for that,” he manages. The deflection is obvious. But the words coax a small smile to Gawain's face.<br/>“I could always use a backup.” Lancelot snorts. “Squirrel is my second. But <em>you...</em> you fight like nothing I've ever seen before.” He sounds... almost fond. The Knight turns away to look through the small stone window. “Unless you're planning to run away the first chance you get.”<br/>“Lying is a sin,” the monk snaps. And then sighs, drawing himself back. “I'll keep my word.” To make amends. To heal what he has harmed. <em>I'll do whatever you ask</em>. “Will they challenge her?” He doesn't ask Will they come for me? The answer to both questions, he knows, will be the same.<br/>Gawain thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “You're not the first unpopular decision Nimue has made.” Only the most recent. “Things will settle.” The monk gives him a doubtful look. “She has their trust. They may not all agree, but her people will abide by her choices.”<p>The sun is setting when Gawain turns to him, again breaking their companionable silence. “We have council soon.” He looks over when the monk doesn't reply. “I could use your fresh eyes,” he offers. Lancelot nods, silent. Appraising. Weighing.<br/>
The sun dies, leaving the world dark, and they walk together to the hall for council.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><br/>“The one who cries,” hisses the sharp-toothed woman. He says nothing, hand inching towards the empty place on his belt where the dual swords had formerly rested. He's not been granted them back just yet. If he ever is. She turns away, though he's not foolish enough to think her scrutiny has left him. “And <em>why</em> have we not killed him yet?” Nimue doesn't respond, only looking to Gawain with a single raised eyebrow.<br/>“Peace, Kaze. He's here at my request.” The two share a long, wordless look, and she bares her teeth at him before turning away.<br/><em>If I wanted to leave, if I tried to... do you really think you'd be able to stop me?</em> The monk says nothing. Ignores the truth lurking in the shadows of his mind; that he has nowhere else to go. The humans of this land hate the fey. Fear them, thanks to him. There's no place he can go to be safe. Where he won't be <em>hunted</em>.<br/>Remaining here is the best of his few, bad options. At least until he's healed.<br/><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><br/>The debate lasts long into the night. He's silent for most of it; preferring always to listen rather than speak and draw the attention of the room. There's nothing of consequence for him to add. Nothing missed that is of any vital importance.<br/>Instead, he observes. What he wouldn't have given even a fortnight ago to have this knowledge; this perspective, from the heart of the enemy encampment.<br/>Lancelot's final, frayed nerve rests on a knife's edge. Looking around, it seems he's not alone.<br/>Lady Nimue fidgets in the stillness, restless even among friends and allies. Throughout the council, she nods, making the proper interjections with comments and questions at the proper times. But it feels... forced. Like her mind is elsewhere. No one else pays any mind to it.<br/>Her attention drifts, ears perking up at a whisper no one else seems to hear. From the corner of his eye, he can see her loss of focus. Watch her hand drift down, ever so slowly, to cover the pommel of the sword.<br/><p>The question is asked, “What news of the Paladins?”<br/>
“The Red Paladins are scattered,” Kaze interjects. “They lost many of their number to the skirmish with the Pendragon soldiers. Their leader is dead. Our scouts bring reports on the groups that have escaped the initial slaughter. And those that still live...” she looks to him with a promise in her dark eyes. “We will find.” The undercurrent of malice and distrust towards him is earned, he admits to himself. But even then, it grates.<br/>
Still. Patience is not his strong suit. “If I wanted you dead you'd be dead,” he says softly. <em>All of you</em>. There's a pause as his not-quite-threat is absorbed. A moment of stillness.<br/>
And then Kaze reaches for her scimitar. Nimue shoots to her feet, her glare focused on him. On both of them. Hand on the sword of power, though not yet moving to unsheathe it.<br/>
“Enough.” The command crackles through the room. There's a flash of something, there and gone too fast to follow. Indiscernible to him, perhaps even to one trained in identifying such things. The council wraps up soon after that.<br/>
</p>
<p>The feeling flees too quickly to catch and hold on to, leaving him drained and questioning as he walks alone through the darkened maze of halls to his chamber.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the gods have (once again) made the mistake of gifting me with dopamine this fine fine day and I have decided (once again) to make it everyone else's problem<br/>they'll learn eventually but until then have another chapter</p>
<p>Gawain painfully lowering himself into chairs brought to u by La-Z-Boy</p>
<p>also yes Lancelot was just sitting on the floor for a large percentage of this chapter don't @ me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Yet from what I do inherit</em><br/>
<em>Here thy praises I'll begin</em></p>
<p><em>Their leader is dead</em>. Father Carden is gone. It's both surprising... and not. The knowledge only adds to the hollow pit in his chest. Why he hadn't thought to ask before this... Lancelot doesn't know. He falls into a troubled sleep, the ache having long-since taken root there. And he dreams.<br/>
Brother Salt is dead; his kitchen closed. Neither fact makes any difference to dream-Lancelot. The tortures once practised there are no worse than anything he's inflicted upon himself; upon others.<br/>
The visages of the Ash Folk rise to glare at him in his mind, their dead eyes accusing. Tear-streaked faces like his with mouths opened into noiseless screams. Bodies charred and contorted on the grounds walked by their ancestors, far away from the isle on which he now resides. Their apparent affinity for flame hadn't saved them from the pyres; only made each death more ironic. More ghastly.</p>
<p>The sun is almost risen by the time he leaves his chambers, fear-sweat already drying, leaving his skin tacky. His skin crawls in that familiar way, to have so many of the fey so close. So many of his kind, though none carry a whiff of the creosote smell that he does.<br/>
He can pick out the papery, dust-tinged smell of the Moon Wings, and the sour, herbal scents that trail their few healers. The venom-tinged musk of the Snake folk. The rougher, more animal scent of the other clans. Smell their individual scents, their boredom or excitement or annoyance. Mundane, regular emotions.<br/>
But not fear; not so much of it, anyway, that he's overwhelmed. Even when he's caught outside. Either he's grown used to the smell, a feat he'd not managed in all his years living within the Paladin camps, or...<br/>
His mind shies away from the hopeful alternative. That these people, the ones whose lives he's destroyed, who should hate him, who have more than every right to reject him... perhaps they are not afraid anymore. Perhaps, under Lady Nimue's command, he can be different. Can be better than he was before.<br/>
Maybe, just <em>maybe,</em> he thinks... this could be something more than temporary.</p>
<p>The faun sentries cry out a warning just as he walks underneath the gate. The approaching force is fey, by the smell, large but scattered, leaving the forest in clusters of five or ten at most. They walk slowly, and he can see the exhaustion in the slump of their shoulders, the bow of their heads. A retreat.<br/>
Lancelot makes one himself as they grow closer, withdrawing back behind the palisades as they approach. Back behind the gate, where he waits, half in shadow, for their arrival.</p>
<p>The human man that leads the returning force is one he's met before. Fought before. He has only himself to blame for being unarmed at that moment.<br/>
But they've fought before, with much greater stakes. Lancelot had bested him then as well.<br/>
“Arthur!” The shout is from Lady Nimue, running out to meet them as they pass under the gates.<br/>
The man, named now, crushes her to his chest, and she wraps her arms tight around him.<br/>
“You kept them safe,” she whispers. “You saved them.” The boats had been a farce. A will-of-the-wisp, drawing them further into the slaughter. King Uther's goodwill did not extend any further than his fickle attention span, it seemed.<br/>
“As many as I could.” He pivots on his heel to the woman next to him, who steps forward. “This is the Red Spear. We have her to thank for losing so little.” The beaches had been... a bloodbath. They have lost much. No one denies it. But what it could have been, what they could have lost...<br/>
It defies imagining.<br/>
“The favour you have done me and my people...” Nimue blinks. Clears her throat and looks back at her unlikely ally. “I can never repay it. But you have my thanks.”<br/>
The Red Spear shrugs. “Any loss of Cumber's is a win of mine. It was a good fight. My people are warriors.”<br/>
Arthur snorts. “They're mercenaries.”<br/>
She doesn't miss a beat. “That too.”</p>
<p>It's only bad luck that the sun shines so brightly here, piercing even into nooks and niches and alleyways. <em>Cheerful,</em> the Green Knight would call it. He can hear the smiling voice inside his head. Lancelot calls it a tactical disadvantage. Only ill-timed coincidence, being in the wrong place at the wrong moment, that alerts Arthur to his presence. The man blinks once, twice, before truly registering the threat.<br/>
The Weeping Monk, weaponless before him. No less a danger for his unarmed state. Lancelot, who makes no move except to fall into a defensive stance, face guarded and watchful.<br/>
“You,” Arthur breathes, arm already outstretched to shield Nimue from the monk. The thought itself is gallant, if ill-planned. Foolish. Both remember well the outcome of their last fight. The near-miss, Arthur's life preserved only by Gawain's haste. They both know exactly how outmatched he is. “Stay behind me.” He holds the sword in a white-knuckled grip. At least it's pointing the right way.<br/>
“Arthur-” she tries. “Enough. Stop.” Her hand rests on his arm, pushing it to point towards the ground. His gaze flicks back and forth, back and forth, never leaving Lancelot for more than a long moment.<br/>
“Nimue?” He sounds lost. The tip of the sword aimed at him sways, its wielder uncertain. “Tell me this isn't what it looks like.”<br/>
“He-” Lancelot must flinch, must draw Arthur's eye again somehow, because he turns with a snarl. Red Spear, wary gaze flicking back and forth between the parties, tightens her grip on the shaft of her spear.<br/>
“You almost <em>killed</em> me. And Gawain. You killed Mogwan. You killed Bergerum.” Probably. He doesn't bother to deny it, though he fails to recognize the names. “Why is he not in chains? Why is he not <em>dead</em>?”<br/>
Her head snaps up. “I know what he's done, same as you. But for better or worse, Lancelot is for us now. <em>With</em> us.” She looks at them both, catching their gazes. “It's time to put it down.”<br/>
“But-” he stumbles. “<em>What</em>?” The stubborn outrage in the question is unmistakable. The challenge is clear. He doesn't lower his sword.<br/>
She draws herself up. “Arthur. <em>Enough</em>. That is an order from your queen.” He only stares at her for a moment, mouth hanging open a bit. And then he straightens.<br/>
“Fine.” Arthur storms away, betrayal in the set of his shoulders.</p>
<p>The three of them stand in the alleyway until the dust of his passing settles. Nimue turns to him.<br/>
“You're not going to finish that fight,” she says, eyes on his tear-marked ones. It's... not an order, exactly. More of a question. The monk shakes his head.<br/>
“I've no interest in him, dead or otherwise.” If there's a fight, Lancelot won't be the one to initiate it. He'll be the one to finish it. They turn to Red Spear, who's still staring after Arthur.<br/>
She blinks. Shrugs a shoulder before turning closer to Nimue. “If anyone's going to kill him, it's going to be me. Have you heard him try to <em>sing</em>?” Nimue lets out a startled laugh.<br/>
“He has good intentions.” She utters it like a prophecy; like a curse. The words swim in the air around them for a moment before they disperse.<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><br/>There is a knock on his door, later. Gawain is outside in the hall, a parcel clutched in his hands.<br/>“I came to return these,” he holds out the swords, bundled together in his belt. Lancelot nods his thanks, eyes running over each groove and nick and scratch in a familiar tally. The Knights gaze follows his down the length of the blades and back up, taking inventory.<br/>“They are...” he swallows. “Without equal. You should be proud to carry such weapons.”<br/>Lancelot looks up, incredulous. “I've tried to kill you with these before,” he says, the words flat. He could have succeeded, had it not been for his orders. Gawain only looks amused.<br/>“I know that. Which is why I didn't have time to examine them as closely as I would've liked.”<br/>Lancelot is... speechless, for a moment. “I'd wager you got a good look at one of them after I ran you through with it,” He spits tartly. The Knight shrugs, looking unconcerned.<br/>“I got better, didn't I?” The monk's eyes widen. <em>He's lost his mind</em>.<br/>“You've lost your mind,” he snaps. “You died.” If he shrugs again, Lancelot is leaving. It doesn't matter that the room is <em>his,</em> now, and is not and never has been Gawain's.<br/>The Knight makes a placating gesture. “Peace. I'm only teasing you.”<p>The scraping rasp of whetstone over steel settles him more firmly within the present. Allows him to refocus, to calm his racing mind and heart. To still his body, his muscles still screwed to the sticking point in the indecision fight or flight. He even manages to speak, after a time.<br/>
“Thank you.” The Knight inclines his head.<br/>
“It would be a pity to lose such fine tools. You seem... partial, to them.”<br/>
He nods, cautious. “I am.”<br/>
Tools, yes, but more than that. Constant, steady companions at his side. Friends, almost. Their loss has disturbed him, even as temporary as it's been. Left him off-kilter. Unsure. To have them back where they should be, where they belong, is a relief from a tension he hadn't known he was holding.<br/>
“They were forged in Damascus. The smiths there...” he looks up, eyes gleaming. “They melt metal like water and cast swords from moulds of stone.” Witnessing the process, even just a part of it, had been the closest he'd come to grasping an understanding of the divine. It had filled him with wonder. “They've been mine since I came to Father Carden.” He'd been honoured to learn how to wield them. To familiarize himself with their weight in his hands. To hear them sing as they cut through the air. Reverent. Bordering on worshipful.<br/>
Old friends, they are now. He knows them well. Born into fire, like him. Forged by skilled and unrelenting hands. And afterwards, watered with blood.<br/>
There's something like shame mixed in with the heat that rises to his face. He says nothing.<br/>
“Do you-” Gawain cuts himself off. “Do you remember them?” <em>The ones you've killed?</em> It takes only a moment for the monk to take his meaning.<br/>
He shakes his head. “No.” Their faces blur together in his mind, their features, whether human-like or fully alien. Fully fey. They don't linger there for long before drifting back into darkness. He doesn't know their names. Can't recall <em>why</em> they had deserved to die, besides the crime of their existence. If, indeed, they had.<br/>
Deep, deep down, in the place he's tried his whole life to smother into silence... he knows that they didn't. That the only thing distinguishing the two was which end of the sword they were on. Which end of the torch.<br/>
Only the whim of a madman had held him back from the pyre. His usefulness had spared him. That was all. And <em>that</em>... that is worth forgetting.<br/>
The Weeping Monk doesn't want to remember. But Lancelot can never forget.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a note: i know less than nothing about historical Damascene sword-smithing, so the information provided on such topics in this chapter is at best dubious and at worst wildly anachronistic. Forgive me daddy, for i have sinned</p>
<p>also i had to look up 'what do snakes smell like' for this story so rest assured that my fbi agent is now suffering just as much as everyone else here</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Clothed then in blood washed linen<br/>
How I'll sing thy sovereign grace</em>
</p>
<p>There is blood in his hair, dried now. The scar on his scalp, a burn from one of Brother Salt irons, itches as it heals. Lancelot scratches it as he sleeps. Still, he knows it won't scar. A peculiarity of the Ash Folk; they are hard to burn. The hurts caused to them by fire heal quickly. In camp, it meant that the brand taken by his brothers only once was given to him every month or so.<br/>
He hadn't counted before, the days it took to heal. Too soon, always. But the pain of it had cleansed his soul. Helped him refocus. So he'd believed. So he'd hoped.<br/>
No longer.<br/>
It will heal this time and leave nothing behind. No trace of his former allegiance, not even a bald spot. The hair will grow back as full as if the fire had never touched it.<br/>
Lancelot doesn't know whether it feels like a loss or not. Most of his many scars he will carry for the rest of his life, however short. But this one...<br/>
Perhaps he's glad to be free of it. All of it.<br/>
It feels as if a sword's been taken away from his throat. Like dodging a blow. Like putting down a heavy burden. He's been freed from having to choose between two impossible alternatives.<br/>
He shakes his head, the movement clearing his dark thoughts. Too many threads in that tangled tapestry. Too many fraying knots. If he pulls at them, they'll begin to unravel. <em>It's only a matter of time before all this falls apart</em>.<br/>
And it will. He makes his way through the sun swept halls and out into the surrounding keep. It always does. But until then...perhaps he can put it down, for a while. Can let himself rest a little. If only to be better prepared for the trouble that's sure to come.</p>
<p>The training grounds are already occupied, to Lancelot's chagrin. Arthur, with his borrowed sword, and a few Tusks, along with a small group of human mercenaries who look to belong to the Red Spear's war-band. They turn as he approaches, scents turning wary, but make no move to stop him. Only Arthur, brash now instead of frozen, instead of raging, strides up to him.<br/>
“Come to train, Weeping Monk?” The question is a rhetorical one, mocking, an answer neither expected nor welcome. He imagines replying, lip curling up in a matching sneer as he bites out <em>No, I came here to socialize. I was lonely.</em> Instead, he keeps his mouth sealed in a firm line. Better to be silent than to say something foolish. Something goading. Not that it would take much to start a fight. “Need a sparring partner?” His eyes flick up to meet the other man's gaze. <em>That</em> question, at least, is a serious one. Not a joke, though almost a threat. The anger edging the man's voice is very real.<br/>
And undoubtedly deserved. “I've killed your friends,” he challenges. “You don't wish to avenge them?”<br/>
Arthur's sable eyes flash, but he scoffs. “I don't need to forgive you to learn from you. I've seen you; teach me how to fight as you do.” Lancelot shoves down the impulse to roll his eyes. The flattery is obvious; the desire behind it no more well-disguised. <em>So be it</em>.<br/>
The monk nods. The man wants a fight, and he'll have it. Sooner or later. Here and now, in a bright, open space with witnesses is the best he's going to offer.</p>
<p>It'll take more than a glorified mercenary to bring Lancelot his end. Especially this one. For now, for this fight, he can- not relax, exactly. But... <em>unbend</em>. Take a breath. Arthur smirks when he picks up a training sword instead of drawing his own, fumbling to catch when Lancelot tosses him its twin. He swings it once, twice in a figure-eight to adjust to the difference. And then they begin, falling into familiar stances. Circling.<br/>
A step forward. Another. The flash of a blunt blade and they come together in the middle, muscles straining.<br/>
Arthur loses his smirk after Lancelot backhands him, unlocking their training swords from one another. Doubtless, the man remembers their previous encounter less-than-fondly. He kicks the flat of the sword. Sends it spinning away into the dust, out of reach. There's a flash of green out of the corner of his eye. He spares only a glance to see Gawain, returned from council, coming to watch.<br/>
Arthur lashes out with a punch. The monk twists around it. He parries the blow with his crossguard, pommel coming up meet the soft flesh beneath Arthur's chin. Forcing him back. Lancelot cuts at him with the tip of the sword as Arthur jerks away. He bites back his disappointment at the near-miss.<br/>
The fight doesn't last long. Three more moves and Arthur is on the ground before him, chest heaving. Dark brow slick with sweat.<br/>
“You aren't... bad,” he offers, as Arthur pushes himself to his feet. <em>For a tavern brawler</em>. But luck only holds out for so long against skill. The other man nods. “You need practice.” And discipline, if he was ever going to advance past being an unusually talented novice. He can see Gawain fighting down a smirk in his peripheral vision. Lady Nimue will hear of this, he knows. She may not find it so amusing. Guilt, or something like it, rises from where it makes a permanent home deep in his guts. He forces it back down with an ease borne of practice.<br/>
He's done nothing wrong. Has hurt no one, and Arthur's pride will heal. <em>You're not going to finish that fight</em>. She'll probably still be disappointed with him, or at least annoyed, and for reasons he doesn't wish to dwell on the thought stings.<br/>
“What about you two?” The question hangs in the air, none of the three moving from the field. Arthur meets Lancelot's gaze, admitting, “I can't beat him, either. Maybe you can.”<br/>
“We've fought,” is the monk's stiff reply. Gawain chuckles.<br/>
“We have.” He gives the Ash man an appealing look. “Once more, perhaps? For old-times sake?”<br/>
The silence stretches thin, the dust settling somewhat. Then Lancelot sighs, unsheathing his sword with a put-upon expression.</p>
<p>Lancelot loses himself to the ebb and dance of battle. There's something about it, clean and flowing, that has always called to him. Something pure. Like water. It stills the unruly rush of his thoughts. Puts every action into perfect perspective. If he fails, he'll die. If he succeeds, he gets to live.<br/>
It's been years since the first sword or bow or dagger was pushed into his hands. Soft hands, they had been; the hands of a child.<br/>
No longer. He spins, going to a knee in the dirt, throwing the Green Knight's blade from his own with the flick of his wrist. In the opening, a split second of disarmed surprise, he cuts up towards the Knight.<br/>
There's no armour there to disperse the force of the blow. To protect against the blunted strike of the blade against his chest. Only a gambeson.<br/>
The Green Knight stumbles backwards, and there's nothing to break his fall.<br/>
<em>Gawain</em>.<br/>
<em>No</em>. No. <em>Not again</em>. His sword drops from nerveless fingers as he rushes over.<br/>
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  <p>-</p>
</div><p>“Lancelot,” the knight tries. The monk doesn't halt, his frantic hands scrambling to uncover the imagined wound. <em>“Lancelot.”</em> Their eyes meet, and Gawain sees him return to himself, just a little. He huffs a laugh, wincing as if he feels the dull ache of an already forming bruise. “I'm unharmed; it only hurts, is all. I'm fine.”<br/>
The mist of fearful memory recedes, and they are left kneeling on the training field. Curious stares burn into his back, and Lancelot feels keenly the loss of his cloak. It had been too hot to keep it on.<br/>
Gawain's shirt is ripped, ragged, gaping open in the middle. <em>Did I do that?</em> It doesn't matter; he can't mend it. The brand on his chest stands out starkly, healed now as it ever can be. The skin is shiny; raised slightly in a curling scar where the metal made contact. It's almost beautiful, in a terrible way.<br/>
That he lived long enough to heal from it at all is a miracle that Lancelot thanks God for. Thanks the Hidden for.<br/>
He doubts anyone else would have spoken for him. Save for Percival.<br/>
<em>Gawain,</em> though. Gawain had been the first. Even beaten, tied to a chair and surrounded by enemies, he'd been the victor of their exchange. They both knew it. Lancelot had spoken those empty final words,<em> I'll pray for you,</em> and run away.<br/>
“I need you alive,” Lancelot says. The admission brings a wry smile to the Green Knight's face. If only, he muses, because Lady Nimue is less likely to kill him with Gawain around to dissuade her.<br/>
“Lucky,” he murmurs, tilting his head. Lancelot takes his outstretched arm, pulling up to bring him to his feet.<br/>
Gawain is covered in dust and bits of straw, and he'll have to replace his torn shirt and the severed leather laces of his arming jacket. But otherwise... fine. Unharmed. At most winded, and a little bruised. It's then that he seems to recognize the many curious witnesses that surround them.<br/>
“Everyone done staring? I'm sure you all have many important duties to attend to.” And when no one makes any move to leave, “<em>Shoo.</em>” The command is firm, even as Lancelot can see him struggling to keep a straight face. Fighting down a smirk. Again.<br/>
The crowd disperses.<br/>
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</div><p>Gawain doesn't need help. He's not hurt. Just heading up to his chambers for a new shirt, so he claims. Not an unreasonable excuse. Lancelot walks with him, just in case he's hiding something. Not out of any guilt. Just in case he's hurt worse than he lets on. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust to the relative darkness of the keep's interior hallways.</p>
<p>“Sorry.” The word just... slips out. He doesn't look up as he says it. <em>Mea culpa</em>.<br/>
The Green Knight simply shrugs, in his maddening way. “No blood, no foul.” And then, bafflingly, “You're not hurt, are you?”<br/>
“No.” Only embarrassed, though it's doubtful anyone would be able to tell. His thoughts are rare to show on his face, a product of his less-than-pleasant upbringing. Consideration of any kind is... discomfiting. Makes him <em>itch,</em> as if his skin were crawling with ants. It's a different sort of attention than he was paid by the Paladins. Different, and yet the same. Fear and awe, but mostly fear even now. Still unique among rare creatures. Still set apart. A hand on his shoulder brings him abruptly back to the present, standing still in the hall outside of Gawain's chambers. The man gives him a considerate look, almost kind, before releasing him.<br/>
“They <em>will</em> come to see you as I do. Give it time.” He nods, ducking his head to escape Gawain's relentless optimism. It's galling sometimes, to see Gawain act like this, with everything he knows has happened to the man. An assortment of misfortunes, some Lancelot himself has had a hand in. It's not an act, though, and he knows that too. It just is.<br/>
Forgiveness is not something he expects. Even with time. Something too vast to hope for, like dreaming of summer rain in the Holy Land. Lancelot should know better. And does, on some level.<br/>
“I'm willing to wait.” The words bear a dim echo from a previous encounter. A darker one. <em>You seem a patient man</em>. Gawain nods, conceding the point.<br/>
Time. <em>Give it time</em>.</p>
<p>Lancelot will try.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>haha guys get ready for this fic to be rendered completely obselete when season two comes out<br/>prepare thine souls to be shriven</p>
<p>a note™: i will probably be on hiatus for around the next three months because of a summer camp job so cash me outside until... eh... around august, probably. dont worry im not dead and neither is this fic</p>
<p>Lancelot shaking his head to clear it brought to you by Etch-A-Sketch</p>
<p>also yes i absolutely think Arthur fights like a bitch how could you tell</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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